


Air Hunger

by 9Jou10



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Except that this is NOT fluff, Gen, Second person POV, i honestly don't know what to tag, the beginning kind of is???? But when u think abt it it's really not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9Jou10/pseuds/9Jou10
Summary: Breathing has always been hard for you. A little bit of warmth, however, can make it all better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, originally, I was going to write a very literal interpretation of Riku eating **HEARTS** and **SOULS** but I decided I couldn't do that without a little build-up or describing exact recipes and I, for one, have never actually eaten a heart so I wouldn't know how to prepare it and— *ahem* I'll stop now. No gore today, the muse wanted Spirit Bombs this time around.

It's hard to breathe.

Of course, it's always been hard to breathe. You can barely remember a time when it wasn't; those memories are fuzzy and have long since been overwhelmed by memories of constant hospitalization, of inhalers and oxygen masks and plastic bags surrounding otherwise fluffy and cuddly toys. This time is a bit different, however. This time, you're grasping at the sheets in desperation, hungry for air you can't take in.

You're thirteen years old, trapped in white walls and cold, clean sheets and stuck with a machine that's supposed to be giving you oxygen, and you still can't breathe.

A few tears leak out from behind your eyelids, tightly shut. This is it, you think. You're going to die here, alone; visiting hours are over, so your parents are home, not knowing that you're choking on nothing again. Your brother isn't even an option anymore; he left in your and your family's time of need. You tried to press the button by your bedside, but you're not sure if you managed to push it properly; it seemed like a glancing blow to you who had barely mustered the willpower to reach for it, and you definitely don't have it in you to rip out any of the wires that might send an alert to whoever's watching. (You would hope that they would come running anyway at the state you're in, heart beating like crazy if the intermittent beeping behind you is any indication and oxygen levels probably closer to zero than ninety by now.)

You don't notice the door opening quietly, or the small, decidedly non-medical personnel figure stepping in. You do notice a feather-light touch to your shoulder, however, and feel the mask being pried from your muzzle. Your eyes fly open, startled, but the hand on your shoulder squeezes comfortingly. Soft murmurs that sound vaguely like your twin's voice reach your ears, but the words don't register. You think you might be hallucinating the soft but bright light in the figure's hand, casting shadows that hide most details from view. He brings it to your face, and it's warm and soothing and suddenly you can breathe and in an instant the pain is gone, the EKG is back to normal, you blink and the only things left to prove anyone was there are an open door and the oxygen mask still off your face where the figure left it.

Cautiously, you put it back on, but the lingering warmth from the light eventually puts you to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Years have passed since the night you nearly choked to death. You still aren't sure whether the figure and the light were real or a dream; the experience was so surreal that you're almost sure you just imagined it but you also know that since then, you have had no major attacks. You've been well enough to attend public school, to graduate from high school, though the doctors had to grant you an exemption from any gym or PE classes.

Your brother is an idol, now; you've seen him on television and it makes your blood burn and your heart feel heavy, the hurt of his leaving not quite dissipated. You want to chase after him, to understand what was so enticing about the life he chose compared to staying with his family, and so you do. It's hard, you notice, because it takes a lot more effort and physical prowess to sing and dance than idols and TV stars make it look, and you can feel the warmth that has held you for the past five years slipping. It's not enough to keep the coughing and wheezing at bay anymore, and you have to pace yourself and carry around an inhaler again, but it's fine. You'll endure it as long as it takes.

You audition with Takanashi Productions, and maybe the basketball game wasn't the best idea, but you won and that makes you rather proud. The adrenaline gets you through the audition, and it's a little rocky and a little scary because what if you're not one of the three to pass? But all seven of you pass, anyway, and it's the birth of something great. IDOLiSh7, a group that you would like to call your closest friends and teammates.

Your first live is embarrassingly small, but it's fine. Nine people attended, and for now, that's enough. It's lively and fun, and you can't help but notice the familiar feeling of soft light and warmth as you sing and dance your group's first song. It pales in comparison to the ball of light you vaguely recall from that night, but it's definitely the same feeling. You feel strengthened, just a little, and you find yourself doing better than you thought you would. How curious.

IDOLiSH7 regularly performs for a while; you note that as the crowd grows bigger and bigger, so too does the feeling of warmth. It's not enough, and you start to think maybe it never will be enough because you drain a little more of the warmth than you get back from the lives, but it's something and really, it's all you have to go off of. You're still not sure just what it is about lives that give you energy, but something does the trick because it's not as likely to happen when you're just practicing with a dance partner or ten.

And then Manager tells Iori who blurts out to everyone else that you all need to take a break from lives and it's the worst thing you've ever heard.

While it's true that the lives ultimately burn more energy than they provide, it's also true that they've been slowing the dissipation of the warmth, supplanting the old warmth with new warmth that is the same but now yours and yours alone, instead of feeling like borrowed time from someone else. Your condition deteriorates; while you haven't had much stamina to begin with, you're feeling what little you have start to dwindle with the stress of not performing. You start to think you won't be able to hide your weakness when the ban is finally lifted.

It all comes to a head on the day of the TRIGGER live. The warmth is not enough to prevent the cold, choking dread of meeting your brother again, or the unpleasantly hot, boiling feeling that you want to say is anger or hatred, but you suspect is more hurt than anything else by the way it spreads to your eyes and makes them burn. These feelings overtake the warmth, and you start to lose your breath without having done anything in particular for the first time in a long time.

You pant and you wheeze as you explain about your twin, about how he left you all behind for life as an idol. You pant and you wheeze through the live, as well, but TRIGGER's performance is captivating. You feel your heart sing and your soul dance to the idol group's every whim, almost failing to notice the cold that threatens to encroach over your very soul. Almost.

You really don't notice, at first. And you suspect the others don't notice at all, adrenaline and pent-up energy releasing itself all at once and bringing them to a natural high. But you have to notice when breathing gets hard, and you need to reach for your inhaler when no one's looking. It's cold, the warmth that once infused you no longer there, and you're struggling for air again, feeling as if the energy is being sucked right out of you and sent to the performers onstage.

Suddenly, you realize. You want to sing. You _need_ to sing, you don't think you'll last three steps outside of the venue if you don't steal some their energy _now_ , while they're still willing to give you a passing glance. And that's what it is, you realize — the warmth is stolen energy, gathered from your audience, the very hearts and souls of the people watching granting you and your fellow idols strength. You blabber on about it, about wanting to sing in the aftermath, and the others are high enough on adrenaline to follow along and perform with you. You gather a crowd, and instantly you're flooded with warmth, no longer breathless from anything but sheer exertion. It's far more warmth than you've ever been exposed to before under your own power, your lungs expanding to fill with air that you swear up and down you had no idea they could even take in. It feels good.

You need more.


End file.
